


Green Glass Doors

by KittyCatriona (War_Worn_Lipstick)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dissociation, Loneliness, M/M, NO DEATH, Not AU, Oneshot, Phan - Freeform, Runaway, Self destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, attempted suicide, suicide warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Worn_Lipstick/pseuds/KittyCatriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is suicidal and he doesn't particularly understand why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Glass Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags for warnings, and heed them well. This whole story is a narrative of a (confused/bizarre) suicide attempt.

I wonder if I’m not seeing things from the right angle. I wonder if it’s all just outside me somehow, beyond me, and I’m an idiot with nothing to say for myself besides that I can’t figure out how to solve my own problems. And I’m mean to the people who love me. I push them away. Yeah, those work as defining features, I guess. If this were some kind of story. If I were some kind of character. 

I just looked up one of those character development worksheets. Let’s see what kind of person I am.

 **Full Name:** Daniel James Howell. 

**Nickname:** Just call me Dan. 

**Physical Characteristics:** Is this really necessary? Pretty pale, I guess. But not like my flatmate. Brown features, like hair and eyes and stuff. Effeminate. 

**Motivation:** Most often death. 

**Moral dilemma:** What does that even mean? 

So that was a flop. It doesn’t even matter, though. 

There isn’t much of a point to this kind of thing. The truth is what the truth is. I’ve wrecked all my relationships, and no one wants to talk to me anymore. Like, I’m an introvert, so I don’t mind being alone, but recently I’ve started this new, fun thing called Hating Myself. So I sort of do mind being alone. I sort of do mind, a lot. 

I feel pretty shit talking about this. I don’t know. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not seeking attention. I’m not longing for your pity or anything. I’m capable of altruism and stuff. I just also tend to be altruistic to serve my own, internal-gratification needs. 

“I don’t only care about myself,” says the guy who just started every sentence with “I.” 

Who am I kidding. There’s no getting around this. There is no right angle, there is no outside, there is no beyond. I’m just a horrible human who cares about nothing more than himself. Because I’ve talked myself into thinking that way. I’ve thought about things so much, I’ve considered the state of the universe and the smallness of humanity, and I’ve come to the conclusion that what I do means nothing in the long run, so I might as well serve myself. And some part of me, some part of me is happy with that conclusion. Some part of me with no emotional ties, some economical, reasonable part, thinks, Yes, That Makes Sense. 

And then I look at what this mindset has done to me. I look at where I am in this very moment, curled on the floor of a motel bathroom, wondering why the tiles are slightly warm. Wondering why everything is slightly warm. 

It turns out, when you try to live for yourself, you end up losing a lot of what made you You. 

Because the people you love can only handle so much selfishness before they get sick of it. 

It’s my second day in the motel. I was supposed to check out an hour ago and the phone keeps ringing, but I haven’t left the bathroom floor since last night and I don’t think I want to leave it right now. I wonder if someone will come in, like a maid or a desk clerk, and I wonder if I’ll get in trouble, if I’ll get fined. 

This is self-destruction, I realize. Low-key, lazy self-destruction. The kind of self-destruction you don’t really see in the movies, or if you do, it’s some kind of punchline. 

“They’ve checked out,” they say, and I’m like, no, I haven’t yet. But I will, probably. I will probably sometime soon. 

~

Someone did eventually come and find me. They kicked me out, and there was a fine. I apologized maybe too many times. They asked if I had somewhere to go, and obviously I didn’t, we both knew I didn’t, but I said I did anyways because it wasn’t any of their business, and also I know I shouldn’t have apologized so many times but there was no reason for them to be worried about me. I was A-Okay. Still am. 

I’m walking around London and it’s raining, of course, but not like a steady rain, or a drizzle, or a storm. It’s like odd, sharp rain. Tiny droplets that fall too fast. They bite my skin and it’s like a shower that’s too hot. 

Anyways, I wish I’d had the sense to bring some kind of hat or hood. But I thought I’d be in a motel, or I thought I’d have fixed things by now. I just can’t think of how to fix things. 

I once made a video about _L’appel du vide._ Call of the Void for all of you who don’t remember. It’s like, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever felt it call this loudly.

I find myself at a bridge and I’m gripping the lower railing because the top one has spikes, and I’m staring down at the road beneath. Little cars, going fast. I count a few and then my eyes glaze over and I lose track.

I’m not really considering it. 

My ears are ringing and everything seems to move past me at a strangely high velocity, almost like I’ve already jumped. But I haven’t even climbed the railing. 

I’m not really considering it.

I don’t think it works that way. 

It’s an impulse, see. It’s the feeling of blank solitude, the feeling of helplessness, like you can’t think of anything else to do in the moment. In the moment, see, it’s just a moment. In the scheme of my life, falling would just take a moment. And thinking it through, well, thinking it through might take less than that. In the scheme of the universe, my entire life is just a moment. Whether I live or die right now, it’s still just a moment. 

I’m crying. It’s cliché because I don’t know if you’d be able to tell, through the rain.

The ringing in my ears is more than just that and I’m vibrating, too. I’m looking down because that’s the source. My phone, in my pocket, ringing and vibrating. I’m pulling it out and I’m answering it, and as soon as I hear my voice I’m wondering when I decided it would be a good idea to pull out my phone and answer it. 

“Hello,” I say, too loudly, I think.

“Dan?” they say, and Oh, it’s Phil. I nod. There’s a long silence before Phil speaks again. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried—you haven’t answered any of my calls.”

“I just did,” I say, and I frown. I hadn’t known he’d been calling at all. Actually, I think he’s lying. I would have known if he’d been calling me. 

“Are you—are you okay? Where are you?

I blink and look around. “A bridge.”

“A bridge? It sounds loud there.”

“Hornsey Lane, I think.” 

“Dan, what are you doing at—” there’s a shuddering breath and it crackles against the speaker. I pull the phone back a little bit, wincing. “Can I come pick you up? We should talk.”

I bite my tongue. 

“If you want, I mean. I just, Dan, I miss you.” 

Truth be told, I missed your voice. 

I don’t tell him that. 

“Dan? I’m hailing a cab right now, okay? Hornsey Lane, you said?” 

I nod again, and the tears and rain on my face are thick tracks, and I can feel that my lips are slimy from my nose, as well. 

“Okay, I’ll be there in a few. I’ll call you if I have any problems, okay?” 

I don’t nod. I grip the phone a little tighter, I try to contain a sob that I know I won’t be able to hold in if I say anything. I say something anyways. “Please don’t hang up.” It’s harsh and too loud like all of my words and I have no right to ask this of him. 

“Alright, I won’t, I won’t hang up. Just give me—just give me a second, I need to tell the driver—” Softly, I hear, “Hornsey and Archway,” and then he’s back. “—Dan, I don’t know what to say.”

I shake my head and wonder what he means. “I just don’t want to be alone anymore,” I say, and I think it’s vague enough to cover everything. 

“Then why’d you leave?” he asks, and I feel something drop inside me. “I just don’t understand, Dan. I thought our fight had been small, but then you were just. Gone.”

“Small?” I say before I know that I’m saying anything. “You thought that was small? Phil,” I find a laugh somehow, “you said our relationship doesn’t even matter to you. You said you were done. Done with us. And you have the nerve to call that small?” 

“I did not say that!” he says, and I’m rolling my eyes.

“Please,” I say. “I’m gonna go now, Phil.” 

“No, don’t.” There’s desperation in his voice, desperation I can’t deny, desperation I can hear over the ringing in my ears. “Dan,” and I’m sick of him saying my name that way, “I wasn’t talking about us. I was talking about the mug you broke. It didn’t matter, it was done. I was talking about the mug.” 

“It was your favorite mug,” I whisper. “It was your favourite mug and I broke it.” 

“It was an accident.”

“I shouldn’t have been using it.”

“Dan, what is this? What is wrong with you?” 

I take the phone from my ear, into both of my hands, and I press it hard to my forehead. I’m suppressing a scream. 

When my breathing is as steady as it will get, I put the phone back to my ear. Phil is apparently waiting for me to speak, or he’s gone. 

“I don’t feel well,” I say through gritted teeth, and I wonder if that’s the understatement of the century. 

“Dan,” he says, and Christ, I wish he would stop saying it. “Why are you on Hornsey?”

I stare down the road, far into the distance. Even through the smog and mist and rain I can see a skyline. A cityscape framed by Payne’s grey clouds and dark trees. “I don’t know,” I say. My voice is quiet now. My hair is sticking to my forehead and it itches a little. 

“You weren’t going to jump, were you?” 

I swallow. “I don’t know,” I say again. I listen as Phil inhales, sharp and fast. 

“Could you get away from the ledge for me?” 

I shrug. There’s a long pause.

“Dan?”

“It’s pretty, kind of,” I say. “In a London sort of way.”

Phil sniffs. “Describe it to me.”

I sigh. “There are lots of trees. From here it sort of looks like they’ve overgrown, onto the road. Some of them are taller, and they’re my favorites. The leaves are like little fans, and they’re a darker shade of green. Everything is shiny from the rain, too. Do you think my phone will get wet and break?

“The fence, the railing, it’s pretty. Ornate. It’s white and black. There are barbs, though. I guess those are for me.” I sniff. “For people like me.” 

Phil intercepts. “Dan—”

“Please stop,” I choke, and I wish I could stop crying. “I don’t like it when you say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

I shake my head. “Like—like you care.”

“I do care,” he says. 

“I know, Christ, I know.” My eyes are closed as I go on. “And you shouldn’t and that’s why it hurts.”

“Dan, wh—sorry—why do you think I shouldn’t care about you?”

A shiver runs up my spine. I wish again that I had a hat or a hood or anything warmer, or that it wasn’t raining. “I never finished describing the bridge,” I say. 

“Answer me, Dan. Why do you think I shouldn’t care?”

“Because I haven’t cared about you, Phil!” I snap, raising my voice again. I wish I would stop doing that. “I’ve been a total asshole! And what, you just forgive me? I broke your _favourite mug,_ and you’re not mad at all? Be serious!” 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “It was an _accident,_ Dan! I saw it happen! I don’t know why you want me to be so upset about this!” 

“Please,” I whisper. “I can’t do this. I’m gonna go, okay? I’m just gonna go.” 

I hang up before he can talk me out of it again. 

~

I wonder if I’m not seeing things from the right angle. I wonder if it’s all just outside me somehow, beyond me, and I’m an asshole with nothing to say for myself besides that I can’t figure out how to solve my own problems. And I’m mean to the people who love me. I push them away. Yeah, those work as defining features, I guess. 

If this were some kind of story. 

If I were some kind of character. 

No, because if I were some kind of character, I’d have something to balance it out. I’d have some good, redeeming features that made the bad ones matter less.

But I’m not a character, this isn’t a story. 

And even if it were—not all stories have happy endings. 

~

I’m trying to hoist myself up onto the railing without cutting myself on the barbs. I don’t know why it matters, but I don’t want to hurt myself. I don’t want to feel any last pain. I hold onto the lamp post and lift. I could probably try to throw myself over, last seconds be damned, but I feel it’s important that I get to look out at the skyline one last time, to _really look_ at the skyline one last time. 

I never got to finish describing it to Phil. 

I love Phil, so much. 

I finally get my balance. I feel dizzy looking down at the cars beneath me. I’m standing on the lower railing and the barbs are digging into the fronts of my ankles. Someone honks as they drive by behind me, and I wonder if they intended it to encourage or discourage me from jumping. 

The rain has slowed but the clouds have gotten thicker, so even after just a few seconds it’s harder to see the skyline. It’s too pale against the sky. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know if I’m crying anymore but I certainly am shaking. I just wanted to see something beautiful.

Apparently, it doesn’t work that way. 

“Dan!”

I flinch and turn at the hips. Phil is climbing out of a taxi and jogging towards me. I don’t know how to describe what I feel in that moment. 

I guess maybe relief, shame, regret. Mostly shame, I think. 

“Dan, please come down.” Upon closer inspection, I can see that Phil is crying, too. Or maybe it’s just the rain. “You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

I take a deep breath. It trembles on exhale. 

“Let’s just go home, okay?” 

I look towards the skyline. It’s completely invisible now. 

“I can make us some hot chocolate, and we can watch—we can watch _Moulin Rouge._ Or anything, I don’t care. That’s just the first thing that came to my head. Is it still your favourite?”

I blink, and suddenly there’s a hand in mine and it’s so warm, and in an instant I’m wondering how I got here, why I’m so high up, why on earth I ever thought I was alone. 

“Please, Dan? Can you come down?” Phil is definitely crying then. I can hear it in his voice. 

I nod and loosen my grip on the street lamp just enough to be able to slide down it. Phil puts his free hand on my back and guides me away from the barbs. When my feet are safely on the ground, he pulls me into a hug. 

“Thank you,” he’s whispering in my ear. “Oh, thank you.” 

Tentatively, I wrap my arms around his waist. “I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s like a soft sob. 

“No, don’t,” he says, “don’t be sorry. I love you, Dan. Please, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

“You can’t do this to me,” he says. “Why did you do this to me?” 

I try to shrug but my shoulders feel heavy. 

“I thought things were going so well, and then—and then—”

“Sorry,” I say again, even softer. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, and he’s dragging me back to the cab. 

~

There’s an empty cup of hot chocolate in my hands and Phil is curled by my side. He set his own empty mug down on the coffee table about a half hour ago, and now his hands are scraping lightly over my ribs, feeling for each one individually, overtop the fabric of my clean, dry jumper. 

After watching an episode of _Buffy,_ upon my own mumbled request (I’d wanted to give something back to Phil, and all I could think to do was suggest we watch his favourite show—how awful is that?), we’d tried to talk things over. I hadn’t done a very good job explaining what had gone wrong, though, in part because I didn’t really understand it myself.

“You think you’re selfish?” Phil had asked.

I’d shrugged, and then I’d nodded.

“Dan,” he’d said, “you’re the most generous person I know.” 

I cried, then. 

~

It takes me a while to figure it out. A few days, at least. And even then, I don’t tell Phil. 

I hadn’t been looking from the right angle. It wasn’t _outside_ me, or _beyond_ me, no. I’m not Hating Myself by circumstance. There is no external factor. The cause is in me, deep in me. It’s not a broken mug or nonexistent selfish behavior. It’s here, it’s now, it’s forever. I don’t know how I never saw it before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know what you thought?<3
> 
> Also, if anyone ever wants to talk, you 100% can message me at my tumblr, kittycatriona. I'll listen, no matter what you have to say.
> 
> Look! A sequel (sort of). ["The Isle."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7065916)


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